How can you really think you’ll get yourself out of this one this time? Memory knows you as a bastard, a harp stringer in the Dudgeon Philarhamonic.
Now what can you be charged with after earlier this day, in the backseat of your aunt’s car reading while she’s inside the building getting a blood transfusion, you stop and watch as a man retrieves a wheelchair from the back of his vehicle, comes around, holds the door open for his wife, whose face you intent your eyes with as she rises, the pain making her wince? You thought those tugs demanded of her muscles were rocks being thrown under a blanket––space streakings, if there were ever any truly real reasoning behind the name that band came up with in Japan.
What, you think you’re a better person for putting that book down, laying on the pillow you started bringing a few weeks ago, noted your eyes were lightly wetting themselves?
What the fuck’s your malfeasance, dude?
Everything I ever said I would have done could not be more sancrosanct now.
Wave at the buckling light changing in a screaming New Year’s Eve, fella. Your world’s death is in that ball, and there’s a baby inside, neither with a sense of guile and yet not completely clean-slated: it has your sloth, but at least it's on a garrote wire leash.

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